


A Pillar Of Salt

by bastardbones



Category: Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Owada Mondo, Blood and Violence, Cynicism, Disturbing Themes, F/M, M/M, Mental Instability, Murder, Obsessive Behavior, Sexual Content, Smoking, Trans Kuwata Leon, Trans Male Character, Unreliable Narrator, mondo is a hitman, this is dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:26:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27037918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastardbones/pseuds/bastardbones
Summary: The way he wants this man he could write 154 sonnets about, at least the first 126, then it's just about a woman (although some could argue). Shakespeare was bisexual, okay? Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Yeah, that was about a man, Sonnet 18, among the most popular poems in history.Anyway, he's gonna kill Kiyotaka Ishimaru.
Relationships: Ishimaru Kiyotaka/Oowada Mondo, Kuwata Leon/Oowada Mondo
Comments: 68
Kudos: 87





	1. Why can't I stand?

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, so, I was going write a long one-shot, but I've decided to do chapters, instead. I've set it to three for now, but that might change, depending if I'm feeling more inspired or this gets a decent response. I write gritty stuff all the time with no problem, but this one kinda got to me. Although, this is the most satisfied I've felt with a piece in awhile.
> 
> Mondo is really messed up in this fic, but I feel you sorta gotta be to be a hitman. The "disturbing themes" tag is just kind of an umbrella for some potentially graphic thoughts and imagery.

He's wearing these Prada sunglasses, these ones with black metal frames and dark lenses, which are speckless, by the way, enough that the tag still ought to be hanging off the side, and burning his tongue on a famichiki. If you don’t know, it’s this snack masquerading as a meal and it’s tasty as hell, it comes wrapped in that paper, like all good grease food does. It's a real convenience store treasure, that and the cheap cigarette he's holding. This is some real juxtaposition, you know? His pricy sunglasses. His pricy fucking suit — it's a Georgio Armani, this pinstripe one from the Manhattan collection, in this deep eggplant purple, the stripes are so thin and delicate that you really have to stare to notice them, the pale lines of color. The lining is striped too, burgundy on top of this muted fabric. It really compliments the exterior. It's a nice suit. It's the kind you wear to your own wedding and nothing else. 

Tonight is kind of a big deal. Or maybe it isn't. He bought this outfit four months ago and this is the first time he's put it on. Right now, he feels like a title character in a teen drama, the kind where the girl dresses to impress the boy she likes, but he doesn't notice until, like, the end of the season. Right now, he's listening to Madonna’s _Material Girl_ on repeat and it only fuels the illusion.

_Some boys romance_

_Some boys slow dance_

_That's alright with me_

_If they can't raise my interest then I_

_Have to let them be_

(It’s a good fucking song, alright?)

He's doing it. It's happening. Mondo is wearing the suit and _god,_ he thinks, _I hope he thinks I'm pretty._

He's been watching the house for the past three hours. It's late and most of the curtains are drawn now. Houses are fun. It's not like those high rise apartments, where his options are few and he has to walk through the front door. It's all about wits, then. Trickery. Sweet talk. He once seduced a man into letting him inside, he batted his eyelashes and the whole bit. The way female assassins are sexualized in those Hollywood movies, offering their bodies before they can snap a neck. Yeah, it was like that, except gay. He also asphyxiated the guy with a pair of leggings, probably his wives, those sheer black ones every woman owns. Honestly, it just made the whole thing a lot gayer, but Mondo, he felt as though he was paying tribute to all the gals of the criminal underworld. The more Mondo thinks about it, the more he feels like a feminist icon. 

Anyway, he doesn't need a gimmick to get inside of this place. When the time comes, he'll just knock. 

His target is a politician and politicians are a dime a dozen. If Mondo really got down to the math of it, he could buy a house, like one of those nice ones in Minami-Aoyama, with the garage and the garden, from all the paper a dead politician is worth. Everyone's got a vendetta with a man in a suit. Be it a political rival or a lover scorned. Women that married too young and just want the goddamn life insurance money, so they can dab their tears each eye at a time at the funeral, then congratulate themselves on their debut performance as The Widow. It's really just an investment, kinda like starting a business. Drop a few grand, then boom, you triple your money. Everyone wants someone dead. Most are just a few stacks short of making it happen. 

During the briefing, Takemichi had reminded him that the job could be passed along to someone else. _You don't gotta do it, boss._ It's cute that Takemichi still calls him boss, like they're in a fucking mobster flick and it's the 80's. It's cute, because Takemichi is loyal and arguably his best goddamn friend, but Mondo, yeah, he would probably gut him if he had to. Every time he looks at someone he thinks he might love, he thinks, _god, don't make me have to._

It was sobering, to hear his name again, to see his picture, and damn, the last few years have done him well. He really lost the baby face, he's all angles now, this sharp cut of man. _Hubba-hubba_. Mondo wouldn't mind a piece of that. Really, he feels fucking entitled to it. He's wanted a lot of men — he'll be the first to admit he's kind of a slut — but those feelings of lust were temporary or easily met. The way he wants _this_ man he could write 154 sonnets about, at least the first 126, then it's just about a woman (although some could argue). Shakespeare was bisexual, okay? _Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?_ Yeah, that was about a man, Sonnet 18, among the most popular poems in history. It's all that fucking pining. Heterosexuals love that shit. They romanticize it. Although, they rarely understand the fucking shame of it. The shame of a man, writing love poems about another man and having them published without permission. Shakespeare has been dead for a long time, but those sonnets, they resonate.

What happened, and it happened years ago, Mondo should be over all of that by now. It's a shame, really, but it isn't a fucking tragedy. 

Anyway, he's gonna kill Kiyotaka Ishimaru. 

He screws the silencer over his gun and knocks.

The door swings open and Mondo pushes through the entrance, shoulder first. He doesn't get a good look at Kiyotaka, just a startled flash of eyes before he folds like a pretzel. The man goes limp in his arms, winded from the punch and Mondo takes this opportunity to kick the door shut.

"Are you alone?" Mondo asks, leveling the gun to his head. He has him in a headlock. 

"Yes!" Kiyotaka wheezes. Mondo didn't have to go hitting him that hard.

"Are you expecting anyone?"

"No," he exhales.

There is a pause. The sound of Kiyotaka catching his breath begins to fade. Their bodies are touching, chest to back, and Mondo can't help but notice how warm he is. He wants to feel that bare skin beneath his fingertips, he wants to know if it feels the way he remembers it. Kiyotaka doesn't seem to know it's him. Mondo thought his voice would shatter any anonymity, but really, the shock of being bum rushed is enough to scramble anyone's brains. Kiyotaka is no exception.

"Got nothin' to say?"

He doesn't usually ask that, the whole _'got any last words?'_ He usually pops the guy as soon as possible, because the thing with death is that it's inevitable, and sometimes you just don't see it coming. A gun to your temple usually is a real motivator, though, and people always see that, they zone in on it, really. The sympathetic nervous system is a hell of a thing. It's the thing that determines whether you dart for the door or wrestle for the gun, you know, that whole survival thing. He's had to pistol whip a fair share of bastards, he has the scars to prove it. Some jobs don't go smoothly. It's a battle of reflexes, who can land the better punch, who can find a weapon. He asks this, he realizes, because he wants to hear Kiyotaka speak. Not just a gurgle of blood, but a full on sentence. He wants his voice. 

"I-I don't want there to be a mess," he manages through the chattering of his teeth. Although, considering the situation, Kiyotaka is holding it together quite well. "I-I rent. It would be unfair to my landlord."

What an odd thing to say. Somehow, Mondo expected a response like that, something weird and unselfish. That's really been the fatal flaw of Kiyotaka Ishimaru, this illusion that everyone else might extend the same kindness he offers them. Treat others the way you want to be treated. That kindergarten shit. 

"Not gonna bribe?" Politicians usually bribe.

"No."

Of course not.

"That blanket. There." He nods his head toward a throw on the couch, folded all nice and neat. "Take that and lay your ass on it."

Kiyotaka considers this for a moment.

"It's thin. I don't think it'll be enough."

He's right. You don't really consider how much blood is in a person until it comes time to mop it off the floor. Mondo, he once had a guy piss on him and honestly, he would take that over a fountain of blood. So many ruined suits. He should be able to write that off his taxes. His eyes dart around the room, looking for another alternative, looking to accommodate Kiyotaka's wish for a clean death.

It could have been so easy. Why complicate it? Mondo, he could have laid him out like a tortured Roman boy on a slab of marble, on that shitty fucking throw blanket. Mondo, he could have stood over him, straddled his waist and felt his erection, because yeah, everyone wants to be spared that detail, but it fucking happens. It's a reflex. The sympathetic nervous system, the goddamn fight or flight, just a response to fear and uncertainty. Bodies are disgusting and it's a shame to have one, but god, if Kiyotaka doesn't look good. It's so easy to imagine him dead.

"Where's your bathroom?" Kiyotaka points it out. "Walk me there. Slow."

It's a step-pause-step. Mondo leads Kiyotaka by the shoulder with a Herculean grip. He can't trust him to not run away, even with the gun. They pass through the dining room. There's this ornate little bowl on the table, overflowing with mandarin oranges. Back in highschool, Kiyotaka would eat one of those with his lunch everyday. Mondo had sort of an aversion to that inner layer, the white part that looks like veins over flesh. Kiyotaka would take the time to peel all that off, though. Not for himself, but for Mondo. He'd sit there, spending a good ten minutes peeling the fruit to culinary perfection. Kiyotaka said that, sometimes, he really wanted to be a farmer. He said that, sometimes, he dreamed of himself growing the food, and Mondo building the house.

"Move it. Now!" Mondo orders, shoving him through the door. "On your knees."

He can't see a goddamn thing in here. He pats along the wall, trying to identify a light switch. Something about his mannerisms, about the way his body moves, must be recognizable to Kiyotaka, because he gets the courage to turn his head, as much as he's able, and look. His eyebrows pull together, he says:

"Mondo?"

He wore his best suit for this.

He feels like every white girl in every movie ever made, that twirls her hair and hopes the boy likes her. The PICK ME girl. Except he's a six foot tall man and he's holding a gun and he cannot find the goddamn light switch. 

He drops him. Kind of shoves him down, actually. Right there at his feet and Taka scrambles off the floor and his eyes get so large. Mondo just folds his sunglasses and slides them into his breast pocket. 

“Hey, Taka," he says.

_Pick me._

He finds the light.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” Kiyotaka breathes, now bathed in fluorescence. He looks stunned. “Why?”

“Believe me when I say this, man. This ain’t nothing personal," Mondo shrugs with a distant demeanor. For the most part, that is not a lie. He is not here to kill Kiyotaka out of his volition, but he didn't say no, either. “You’re a good guy, but I guess you just pissed off the wrong people.”

Somehow, Kiyotaka doesn't seem surprised. The corner of his mouth pulls into this sort of grimace and he asks, “Who?”

“I don’t know my clients personally. I get my work through a middle man and I don’t ask too many questions. Honestly, I don’t really give a fuck as long as they’re paying me.”

“How much?”

This is usually the part where his target says they'll double, no, triple the amount his source is dishing. It never works. Kiyotaka isn't going to try it, he's just asking.

“This is a pretty standard hit. I ain’t about to make a fortune," Mondo chuckles. “Look, I don’t want this to be hard. Just get on your knees, Taka."

Kiyotaka looks disturbed. Like Mondo is disturbing him. Like with every passing moment, he realizes more and more how batshit insane this all is. Like this has to be one big, bad misunderstanding.

“Why can’t I stand?” Kiyotaka demands, challenging him. 

“Just do what I say," Mondo scoffs, sort of taken aback by the sudden attitude.

“Mondo, I—” Taka swallows. “There has to be another way.”

“Ain’t no way around it. Just be a fuckin’ man about it, yeah? I still got an ounce of respect for you, I don’t wanna see you sniveling like a bitch.”

He yanks him by the collar and drags him toward the shower, which is huge, by the way. It's beautiful, too. It has this pane glass door and marble backsplash and Kiyotaka must make good money to rent a place like this. Mondo pushes him inside and Kiyotaka nearly slips on his socks. There's an idea. Mondo could easily make this look like a suicide, like Taka was just taking a shower then busted his head open. Mondo has done that before and the cops usually buy it. He dismisses the thought. He pulls back the safety of his gun and it rattles Kiyotaka.

“Can I call my father?” He anxiously blurts. He wants to say goodbye.

“Can’t let you do that. Sorry.”

“I understand," he gulps, then motions to his tie. “Can I take this off first?”

Mondo can allow that. 

Kiyotaka begins to pull his neck free of the fabric. Mondo leans back, gun aimed, but it loses some of that intention. He has one hand on the trigger, the other on the surface just behind him, clutching the corner of the sink. He gets this twinge in his groin and it makes him want to touch himself. There's a reason for it, of course. A memory. Him and Kiyotaka making out in a bathroom. That had been the first time they kissed, and Mondo, he just couldn't take it anymore, that tension building between them, building for months. Kiyotaka had zero grace about him, but Mondo thought it was hot, that lack of experience.

“You were such a bad kisser,” Mondo snorts. Yeah, he just said that aloud. Taka freezes.

His eyes dart from the floor to Mondo, back and forth like that, like he's trying to make sense of this moment. Kiyotaka values logic too much to understand that Mondo just says shit to say it. 

"I'm—" Taka starts, but he doesn't get to finish, "I'm so sorry about—"

Mondo reaches for the end of the tie, then whips it off in one clean motion. Taka jolts. 

“Yeah?” Mondo smooths his thumb over the silky fabric. He drops it. "I'm sorry about that, too, babe."

Now he's just bullying him. 

Something about being bitter for unreturned feelings. Something about acting out for attention. Something about betrayal. Something about Mondo wanting to fuck Kiyotaka into the floor, lick his jaw, his ribs, his armpits, everything. Why the fuck is he getting hard? Why the fuck didn't he shoot him at the door?

“Daddy?”

Mondo snaps his head toward the voice, pulling Kiyotaka with lightning speed, jabbing his gun into the small of his back. 

There is a little girl, she is wearing a peach pink nightgown, and she is hovering by the door. There was no mention of a goddamn kid in his file, not during the briefing, either. He sure as hell didn't see her through the window. The house was supposed to be empty. He takes a moment to glare at Kiyotaka, at his lying fucking face. 

“Hey, sweetheart!” Kiyotaka exclaims, nervously. “What are you doing awake?”

The girl hardly looks at her father, her eyes are on Mondo, staring at him. She has the same eyes as Taka, that brown-ish red color that looks devilish with just the right lightning. The glare of the setting sun, mostly. That orange hue just really accentuates everything, makes them sparkle. Her hair falls just past her shoulder and her bangs are disheveled, as though she'd been tossing in bed. Mondo can see the slightest glimpse of her widows peak, same as her dad's. 

“Who’s that?” She won't stop staring. 

There's that weird, fake voice parents use with their little kids. The high pitched one. You know the one. Kiyotaka doesn't do that. Instead, his voice gets warm, it gets deep, actually. It's so comforting. Mondo wishes his own father would have spoken to him like that. 

“This is my friend. This is an old friend of Daddy’s." 

Not bad, Taka. Mondo would prefer something with a romantic flare, maybe _lover_ , but that's a bit scandalous to admit to a child, isn't it? Mondo wants to hear him say it just once. Unfortunately, _old friend_ will have to do.

“Are you taking a bath?” She's so innocent. She's really asking that.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetie. Just go back to sleep."

She pouts. Mondo half expects her to throw a fit, because that's what kids do, right? They kick and they scream at every inconvenience. Kiyotaka must be raising her right, though. She lingers in the doorway, but she doesn't complain. 

“Hi,” she finally says to Mondo. She does this little wave.

“Hi,” he grins. In his peripheral view there is Kiyotaka, dropping the charade for just a moment to frown. Mondo, it kinda pisses him off, so he burrows the gun harder into Kiyotaka's back, practically trying to fuck him with it. "Say goodnight to your dad, alright?"

He can tell Kiyotaka wants to hold her, maybe collapse to the floor and cry at her feet. Mondo is the wedge between them and fuck, that's powerful, to be the thing separating a man from his child.

“Goodnight, Daddy!”

“Goodnight, baby," his voice breaks at the end, but his eyes crinkle as he smiles. Then, like that, she's gone.

"Daddy," Mondo clicks his tongue. He turns his head in unison with Taka, looking down at him with this expression of exaggerated sympathy, mocking him. "You said there was no one here."

There is real terror in those eyes. Everything before now has just been foreplay.

"She's only three." Kiyotaka frantically shakes his head, like he is right, and Mondo is wrong. Yeah, okay. He imagines Kiyotaka on top of a woman, just jackhammering into her. He got his dick wet and now he has a kid. _A daughter._

Here's the joke. Ready? He wanted a son. He wanted a child that could carry his name. He told Mondo that, back when they were still rubbing dicks and ejaculating onto each other. All that wasted sperm, glistening on their skin. It's tragic to want a man, and then not have the womb to give that man what he wants. Actually, no, it's not tragic, but it's a shame, a fucking shame. Mondo would have been an absolute bitch for him. Mondo would have given him a dozen sons. 

"On your knees!" He's angry now.

Taka raises his hands, defensively. His head is bowed. "Please."

"Here we go. Now he begs," Mondo tsks. He has half the mind to whip him with the gun. "I won't hurt your daughter. I promise, alright? That's a man's promise. Look at me."

 _“I’m sorry,”_ his voice shatters. With the end of his gun, Mondo tips up his trembling chin. Here it comes: The Waterworks. 

"I get it, you were tryna to protect her. I don’t kill kids, alright? Now calm down."

He gently smacks the side of Kiyotaka's face, a dry _whap, whap_ with his gloved hand. It's almost friendly. It's almost crossing a line, this whole fucking thing, the thinnest line Mondo has ever walked. Why can't he just be a monster and smack him for real? Kiyotaka blinks back with these glassy eyes and god, is he beautiful. Those purple crescents, deep from long work days, from sleepless nights, from the duties of fatherhood. That bloodshot look he's got from crying, that tinge of red on white. Mondo, he feels fucked up for romanticizing it, this desperation of a human being. Though, at the same time, he doesn't feel very bad at all. This is intimate. The intimacy of death and sex are one and the same. The creation and the end. The pleasure and the blood. 

"If it makes ya feel any better, she won't remember anything about tonight," Mondo says. This is an attempt at consoling his fellow human. He rates high on the sociopathy scale, so this is difficult to achieve. "And you. You’ll be a distant fuckin’ memory and she’ll idolize the hell outta ya. Dead people got that goin’ for ‘em, y'know?"

He thinks about Daiya. It kind of all just starts and ends with him, doesn't it? Mondo isn't ready to talk about that yet.

His shoe squeaks as he takes a step closer, closing the distance, backing Kiyotaka into the corner.

"What are you doing?"

"What do ya think?"

Kiyotaka isn't nervous that Mondo stepped closer. Kiyotaka is nervous because Mondo just put away the gun.

A gun means business. A knife is personal. Mondo isn't sure which is more appropriate given the circumstances. Maybe his bare hands ought to do. There is no dignity in a corpse, in the rotting, the plasma, the piss. Killing him without leaving a hole in his head, without blowing his brains to bits, is really the kindness gesture Mondo can offer. 

He slides the tactile knife from its sheath and Kiyotaka changes gears, as well. He grabs Mondo's wrist with both hands, the one that's holding the weapon, of course, and finally, here it is, he's fighting back. 

"No." It's more of a sound than a word. More of an exhale than a cry. Kiyotaka manages to do it in a way that is not pathetic, not in the way Mondo has heard a million times. He could kiss him for it, for adding some variety to his routine. He just might.

"Easy," Mondo says, in that soothing voice he likes to use. He points the tip of his blade, aiming for the thigh. Kiyotaka strains to subdue him. "I'm stronger. You know I am. Let go, Taka."

"This isn't you!" He's crying. "I know this isn't you, I know you don't want this, I know, I see it! I promise, I see you, I've always seen you, I—"

He makes this ugly face, a grimace, as the knife punctures his femoral artery. Mondo wants to remember it forever, this awful, ugly face he's making. It reminds him of the face Taka makes when he orgasms. The emotion of it, the rawness. That performative sex, the kind where the other person is more concerned about appearance, about looking good, that kind? Yeah, he hates that. He can't stand it. Taka isn't like that, because Taka doesn't know how to be fake, even to his own benefit. He's really so perfect, even now, even when he's dying. Mondo twists the handle. 

"You're going into shock," he says, matter-of-factly. "And now it doesn't hurt. You're not in any pain."

Kiyotaka inhales deeply, holds it, then lets out a blood curdling wail. A sound of defeat, of anguish. This is the moment he realizes he is truly going to die. Mondo presses a hand over his mouth to muffle him. Too loud. If the kid comes back, it'll be a shit show. Kiyotaka starts nodding off, his head lolling to the side, only to snap back, then loll further. Mondo holds his face, cradles him, and Kiyotaka sinks into the embrace. With damage like this to a major artery, the results come fast. 

"Please,” his voice is a whisper. The color is draining from his face. It's all weeping out of his left leg, in a red that is so dark, it is almost black. It is almost not a color at all.

"Shhh," Mondo coos, helping him collapse, finally, to his goddamn knees. Kiyotaka moans, only because he is unable to cry now. His body is getting to that stage of bare necessities. Where his limbs go cold and that warm blood rushes to his heart in a ditch effort for survival. "It's already over. Don’t fight it.”

“Mondo," he whimpers. 

“I know."

He is incredibly weak. Another minute and he'll be gone. Mondo looks into his eyes, that brownish-red color that is losing light, fast. This is the end, the end as it is, the end as it always will be. He has witnessed it many times. Never quite like this, though. He has never been so invested in the finale. Kiyotaka has this vulnerable expression on his face, he looks tired, so ready, despite struggling just moments ago. Mondo wants him to go easy, none of that in-and-out-of-consciousness, just a comfortable dive into darkness. Kiyotaka gives him that old look, that look from the past, the one that means _I love you_. Mondo has a hard time believing it, but it's there, it's intentional. Kiyotaka blinks and his blinking gets slower, longer, until it stops altogether. His gaze is vacant now. His eyes say nothing. Mondo checks his pulse for the faintest murmur of life. 

Nothing.

Mondo sighs.

“Shoulda been a fuckin’ farmer. Shoulda grown mandarins in fuckin’ Shikoku instead of fuckin’ around in Tokyo. Now yer dead. And yer a father, how 'bout that? Y’know, if it wasn’t me, then it would be another fucker like me. This was the best fuckin’ outcome, man. Anyone else woulda shot ya before sayin’ hello.”

Best outcome? As if. Mondo, he fucking played with him. He's playing with him still, raking his fingers through Kiyotaka's scalp, the thick mess of hair, just like playing with a doll. 

“We coulda been something," Mondo laments all to himself. He takes the time to massage Kiyotaka's eyelids, rotating his thumbs until he can close them. “Rest easy, babe."

The bathroom was supposed to be less of a mess. What a joke. He made such a mess, anyway. 

He hops onto the sink, on that bit of countertop and pats around for his cigarettes. He flips open the pack, pulls one out with his mouth, then lights it. This is sloppy, smoking on the job. Usually he smokes after, like the way he smokes after sex, if the sex was any good. The smoke coils and burns his eyes. His eyes water. He pretends they are real tears, like he is actually crying, because he wants to, some part of him. 

There's blood on his suit.

He looks at Kiyotaka until he isn't looking at Kiyotaka anymore. What he's looking at now is a corpse. A coroner will be here in the morning to observe his cloudy eyes and blue lips. He thinks about kissing him. The way you kiss a dead pet, you do it for selfish reasons. 

He grabs for his burner phone and snaps a few photos. This will be on every local news channel in the morning, which usually suffices in confirming his hits, but the client requested pics, so he takes pics. His client is probably some Tokyo hotshot, maybe even someone Taka was chummy with. Mondo doesn't understand the nuisances of politics, he just knows the world is burning and Kiyotaka wasn't going to be the one to figure it out. Or maybe he was. Why else would someone want him dead? Mondo has personal beef, but the man is no threat, otherwise. The most threatening thing about him is that he is annoyingly persistent.

 _Was_ annoyingly persistent. Past tense. The man is dead now. He is sitting in about an inch of his own fluids.

Mondo extinguishes his cigarette with a few taps against his palm, then pockets it. He looks at Kiyotaka once more, at his dead, handsome face, and damn, what a sad story. It's a shame, really, but it's not a tragedy.

Poor Kiyotaka. Poor dead Kiyotaka. It must be so easy to sympathize with him right now, lying lifelessly in his beautifully decorated master bathroom. There's the fucking thing, though. No one knows what Kiyotaka has _done_ yet. No one knows about the fucked up thing Kiyotaka Ishimaru did. This unforgivable fucking thing that Kiyotaka did to Mondo, did to the both of them. Kiyotaka isn't the only one that's been victimized, okay? He isn't as innocent as everyone thinks. 

Mondo isn't ready to talk about that yet.

He needs to leave. The longer he stays, the harder it will be to drag his feet through the door. Maybe he should have listened to Takemichi, maybe someone else should have taken this job. Mondo could have just heard about on the news or the radio like everyone else. He would have boiled up inside, though, knowing he could have done it. Knowing he had the option. He imagines some no name hitman beating Taka over the head and yeah, that just wouldn't have sat right with him. It simply had to happen like this.

The hallway is dark, darker than he recalls. The entire house feels different now. His shoe bumps something and there is a sleepy groan that accompanies it. Kiyotaka's daughter is on the floor, curled up with a tiny plush blanket. She must have been waiting for him. Poor thing would have waited forever.

"C'mere, babygirl."

He lifts her gently. She hardly weighs anything. The couch is just about the furthest place from the bathroom, so that's where he lays her. Just the slightest peep of that bloodbath will be more than enough to traumatize her. Then it'll be years of therapy. The whole bit. A lifetime of people telling her what a good, strong girl she is, until she grows up and the support circle wears thin. Mondo really doesn't want that for her, he wants to lessen the severity, this pain of abandonment. He bares no ill will to this child. When he leaves here, he'll anonymously ring in and make a noise complaint, so some officer can stumble upon the body, instead.

"What's that?"

The girl is awake all of a sudden and she's pointing to the drying blood on his clothes. Mondo reaches for the coat rack and pulls on this trench coat with loops sewn along the waist, but no belt to loop. He shrugs it on and holds it closed with one hand. 

"Hey, what's your name?" His tone is friendly, but his eyes are dark. She notices, kids notice things like that. He leans against the back of the couch. She is standing on the cushion, on her tiptoes, trying to meet him at eye level. Mondo puts on his best smile. "Hm?"

She twiddles her thumbs, not really looking at him, looking everywhere but. At the floor, at her feet. She's wearing mismatched socks, the colors are clashing and Mondo wonders if she did that herself. Kiyotaka probably would have corrected that. Unless, maybe, he found it cute and encouraged that kind of thing. Expression, creativity. He feels fucked up for thinking that, for thinking about what Taka might have thought. The man has been dead for ten minutes and Mondo, he's really contemplating his daughter's socks.

"Asuka," she says.

"Asuka? Wow, that's a pretty name!"

Gross. He's doing it now. The high pitched voice. It might not be so bad, because she actually smiles.

"Thank you," she giggles.

"Hey, Asuka, where's your mommy? She's not asleep in one of these rooms, is she?" The file was botched. He's still pissed about that. Asuka shakes her head a few times. "You sure?"

"I haven't seen my mommy."

"Ever?" He quirks his eyebrow. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

He already knows the answer to that. She confirms it with another shake of her head.

"Does Daddy have any friends?" She points to him. Yeah, that's right, he's a friend. "So, it's just you and Daddy, huh?"

"Yes," she answers in this voice that's smaller than herself. 

"Y'know, I went to school with your dad. We got into a fight and we were _really_ mad at each other. Does he ever get mad at you?"

"Sometimes, um, he gets cranky when I wake him up, but only sometimes."

Mondo chuckles. "Oh, yeah? He's tired a lot, huh?"

"When's Daddy coming out?" She's pointing to the bathroom. 

There is a beat. 

"Your Daddy left." 

Asuka's eyebrows pull together, in that same way that Taka does it. _Did._ Past tense. The more expressions she makes, the more she starts looking like him.

"Nu-uh!" She whines, suddenly less shy. "I didn't see him."

"You don't remember falling asleep?" Well, it's not a complete lie, to suggest he left while she was conked out. Asuka does this cute thing, it's kind of theatrical, she purses her lips and looks off to the side, then swings her head back, front and center.

"Oh, yeah!" She chirps.

His heart flutters. This is what Kiyotaka has left behind. This is the whole reason people have kids, right? A symbol of love, a wish, a remnant. Asuka is a bastard child, no question about it, motherless, too. That does not diminish her worth, though. She is worth everything. He glances at the crayon drawings magnetized to the fridge and wonders how the hell he missed that. She is not Kiyotaka, but she is the surviving piece of him. Mondo sort of laughs. As if killing him wasn't enough. Mondo wants her, too.

"Daddy's gone now, so I'm gonna take care of you for a little bit. Is that alright, Asuka?"

He offers his hand. The one that isn't covered in her father's blood. She pauses.

And then she takes it, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, Taka.


	2. Two Fruit Flies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, so, this fic is going to be a lot longer than I originally anticipated. I set it to 10 chapters, just as a rough baseline. Thank you so much for the feedback on chapter one! This chapter is considerably less dark. A small breather, y'know? 
> 
> I just hit 45 user subscriptions on my account. I don't know if that's considered a lot, but I think that's really cool. AO3 feels like a vacuum, like I'm just pushing words out there and hoping people like them. It feels like I've pushed out so much DR content in the past, I don't know, four or so months. I've become so emotionally invested. 
> 
> Anyway, I hope this was worth the wait.

* * *

Does watching someone die still traumatize a person, even if they are the one holding the knife and doing the stabbing? Mondo thinks so.

When the things you love die, there is relief that comes with it. Relief, because that dread, that anticipation of the inevitable, it has finally come to an end. Just like extracting an aching tooth, the misery ceases, the relief is instantaneous. When the things you love die by your own hand, there is relief, too. There is no mystery, no illness, no hidden reaper in the night. Kiyotaka Ishimaru is dead and now Mondo, finally, he can stop thinking about it.

Except he can’t.

He is on top of Kiyotaka, they are in the shower again and he is holding the knife. Except now, Kiyotaka has his pants around his ankles and his belt is loose and slapping against the tile. Kiyotaka is tight and warm and clenching around Mondo. They are fucking in this sloppy red puddle and with a cry, Kiyotaka throws his head back.

_“Deeper!”_

Mondo can’t go any deeper. Not with the knife, not with his dick. With every thrust, blood spurts from the black hole in Kiyotaka’s thigh. Dick in, blood out. Dick in, blood out. He tries kissing Kiyotaka, he tries leaning forward, but there is some kind of barrier, something preventing it from happening. He strains against it, this invisible force, strains and strains, but his body won't cooperate. Kiyotaka is incoherent, he is babbling, crying, and making that ugly goddamn face. This sickly-sweet, metallic smell is oozing from his wound. It is so vivid, this miasma of blood and sex, it is so nauseating. Mondo lurches.

He's awake now and somehow that's worse. Everything is wet. The hair matted to his forehead, the clothes heavy with sweat, the beads of pre-cum. He is painfully erect and his stomach is in knots. Horrible, his horrible body cannot decide on which crisis to have. He rips away the blankets before he can suffocate on the heat. The floor is cold, he lifts his shirt and presses his skin against it, desperate for relief. His phone chimes with a reminder. 

He meets with Takemichi at this cafe in Toshima. This place with outside seating and fairy lights draped between an adjoining building. It is a hidden gem among university students, a quaint spot to study and grab a cheap coffee. The cafe is deceptively private, far enough to avoid the metropolitan nightmare, the foot traffic, but close enough to hear an agitated motorists. There is no escaping the soundscape of the city. A student pops in an earphone to distract from the noise, then taps awake their laptop. Takemichi offers to buy Mondo a drink, maybe a latte, he looks pale. He declines. 

Straight to business, then.

"What happened to the girl?"

Mondo is dressed in all black today. He's got on this Versace shirt with an embroidered Barraco collar, beautifully stitched with gold thread, then the denim pants to match, a similar pattern adorning each back pocket. He brings it all together with a pair of teashades, two black circles to hide his eyes. 

He’s mourning. Obviously. 

Takemichi, he flips his phone to show Mondo an article. Mondo thinks it would have been more dramatic if he slid a newspaper across the table, a trillion little dots of ink to showcase this photo of Kiyotaka, slain in the shower, but this isn't the 80’s. Or even 90’s. Printed press is dying, but pretend it isn't, pretend Kiyotaka's corpse is front page news and Takemichi slides it across the table and Mondo weeps a few ink-swirling tears. Just pretend, okay? He stares at Kiyotaka's corpse, this leaked photo from the crime scene. Kiyotaka with his white face and vacant eyes and fuck, Mondo did that. _He did that._ He can still smell the blood, can still feel it flaking beneath his fingernails. He goes to pick it away, but there is nothing, not even dirt. He was wearing gloves last night. Takemichi seems to be watching his face for a reaction. Mondo simply stares. 

This is hard for him, okay? He still has feelings for Kiyotaka. Really, that shouldn't be so goddamn difficult to understand.

Anyway. The girl.

"Shouldn’t I be askin’ you that?" Mondo scoffs. He reclines in his chair, then beats his pack of smokes. "I didn't know there was a fuckin' girl 'til I got there. The fucks that about, Takemichi?"

“Sorry, boss.”

Mondo flicks his lighter, then nurses his cigarette.

“Whatever, man. Shit happens.”

"What's with the shower?"

"I've whacked a bitch in a shower before,” Mondo defends. When he says _bitch_ , he doesn't mean _woman_. He doesn't kill women. Equality for all genders or whatever, but he refuses to point his gun at a lady. 

"Why didn't you shoot him?" 

"Damn, now yer tellin’ me how to do my job?" 

“I just wanna know what happened with this."

"Nothin’ happened," Mondo sneers. "I killed him. I left. The girl probably found him like that and ran out the house all freaked out. Maybe someone picked her up. It ain't hard to take a kid."

Yeah, no kidding.

Takemichi stares, analytically. See, this is why Mondo has to wear shades all the time. Takemichi is a silent observer. They have been friends for a long time, almost too long, so he knows when something is up. 

"Do you need a break?"

"I don't need no fuckin' break. You got another job for me or what?" Mondo demands, bathing them both in a cloud of smoke. He fidgets with his fliptop lighter, clapping it open, then shut. This stupid thing, he's been refilling it with fluid with years. It would be so much easier to buy plastic disposables.

"Take a few days. Then I'll get you a job," Takemichi barters. He hands Mondo an envelope from beneath the table. "It's all there."

For the Ishimaru hit. Mondo stands as he shoves it into his pocket.

"I’ll be seein’ ya, man," Mondo gives the table a two-knuckled knock, then walks away.

"Hey," Takemichi calls out to him. Mondo turns. "Remember to take care of yourself. I know what he meant to you."

Mondo just has to laugh.

His apartment is quiet. He half expected broken glass and a bleeding toddler on the floor upon returning. Everything appears to be as he left it, though. The couch is piled high with a slew of blankets and pillows. He gave the kid his bed last night. He allowed her a brief trot through the apartment, but her curiosity was hardly sated before tucking her in. She asked so many questions, pointing to every object in his bedroom and demanding a backstory. Then, before he could flick off the light, she posed her most pressing inquiry. _Where’s Daddy?_

Kids are supposed to be sponges, right? If they absorb information, then they sure as hell don’t retain it. He could give the same answer a hundred times. He’ll keep fucking saying it. _Away_. 

He opens the door to his bedroom and Asuka is there, on the mattress where he left her. Except, not quite. There are dozens of photographs sprawled out around the toddler and his bedside drawer is open wide. It is filled with all the shit that hurts to look at; old, useless shit. The junk drawer of his heart. Dramatics aside, he might have a few nudes tucked away and if there _is_ a higher power, Asuka hasn't stumbled across them. 

"This is my daddy," she says adoringly to a photo. 

"Asuka.” He would scream at anyone else. "Don't go through my things, alright? It's not nice."

The corner of the bed bows with his weight. He collects the photographs, stacks them into a pile like playing cards. Asuka points to someone in the picture. 

"Who's that?"

"That's me," Mondo answers, tensely. "Me and your dad."

"What!" She exclaims. Admittedly, he looks a lot different there. His skin looks healthier and his teeth are brighter, too. Asuka points to the third person in the photograph. "Who's that?"

This photo was taken, what, five years ago? This was back when life was uncomplicated, when Mondo, he forgot his own name as Kiyotaka gazed at him. When they kissed beneath the sunset and those red eyes robbed him of speech. That Hollywood shit, with the slow motion shots and soft instrumentals, you know? He was so enamored. If anyone judged by stature or build alone, it could be assumed that Mondo was the dominant one in their relationship, although that simply wasn’t true. The two of them were equals. Masculinity, femininity, androgyny, that was all there. There was equilibrium, a balance in energy. With Kiyotaka, Mondo simply felt like a person; no labels and no bullshit expectations. He melted beneath Kiyotaka’s gaze and could have been his man as easily as he could have been his bitch as easily as he could have been anything. That’s what the photo looks like. 

Then there’s Daiya. The mystery man. 

"My brother," Mondo frowns. The three of them together, he can't fucking stand it. He quickly takes away the photo.

"Hey!" She whines. "I like it. I wanna see."

He slams the drawer shut. Asuka jolts.

"These pictures make me sad. Okay, Asuka? That's why I have them in here."

Her face drops. Before she can even start, Mondo lifts her by her armpits. She fusses as he swings her off the bed and to his hip. Maybe food will fix it. He plops her on the kitchen counter and her mouth twitches; she can’t decide whether to cry or not. Mondo is short on ingredients, he takes one glance inside the fridge, and unsurprisingly, there are only condiments. He rarely cooks, most of his meals consist of takeout. There is a menu magnetized to the freezer, he orders four separate meals and figures even the pickiest eater could enjoy one. Asuka is sulking, still. He orders a dessert to perk her up. 

Helping Asuka use the bathroom is a thing that happens. He ushers her through the door and she fidgets with her fingers, and he doesn’t like this, either, okay? She’s too short to reach the toilet, so he picks her up and gets her seated. Stepping stool, he’ll have to buy one. He keeps an ear out for her just outside the door, then helps her wash up at the sink. He is entirely out of his element. 

Kids are needy. Wherever he goes, Asuka follows. He plops onto the couch and is stunned as she climbs into his lap, with all the confidence of an elderly house pet. It bothers him, Asuka getting cozy in his lap. Him, a practical stranger, when he has done very little to earn her trust. She starts playing with his hair, these strands loose from the bun, touching all over his neck and face. He flicks on the T.V. and that will have to do today, he has nothing else to entertain her with, because what the hell does a three year old like, anyway? He puts on a family friendly flick and she sits there, eyes glued to the screen. 

Eventually, she passes out, so he takes that as an opportunity to pull on some sweatpants. She’ll need a change of clothes soon, too. All she has is the nightgown. 

His cell phone buzzes.

**LEON**

_Hey_

Mondo dismisses the notification. The screen darkens, then lights up again.

**LEON**

_I miss you. Come over tonight?_

Mondo snorts. 

Leon is his boyfriend. Probably. Leon is probably his boyfriend. Mondo, he sleeps over sometimes and they kiss and cuddle and even do some of that domestic shit, like buying groceries at 10AM. Mondo pays for everything. Like, _everything_. Before Mondo began footing the bill, Leon was something of a starving artist, working a part time job and trudging between clubs and bars for an opportunity to perform.

**LEON**

_Hellooooo?????_

Mondo spotted him at this gay bar in Shinjuku Ni-Chōme. He was hard to miss. It was some open mic night and Mondo just sipped his drink while he watched, impassive as tone deaf patrons wailed into the microphone. Then Leon got up there with an acoustic guitar. He played Crowded House’s _Don’t Dream It’s Over_ and as he strummed, the bar was quiet. He was smoking hot. He had this gorgeous head of thick, red hair. Thoughtfully disheveled, like he was a real fucking rockstar or something. A bunch of guys were drooling at the sight of him. Everyone wants to fuck a dude with a guitar, right? Mondo had to push past all those hungry bitches. 

"Yo," Mondo had grabbed him before he could duck into the shadows. It was strange, he seemed so confident in front of the mic, but then he shied away from a simple hello. 

"Sorry," Leon had kept his head down, like he was afraid of being seen. Then Mondo came to a realization. He recognized his face. 

"We went to school together, right?"

Rumor had it that Leon Kuwata was a lesbian. Obviously, his name wasn't Leon back then. He kept his hair short and carried himself in a way that rivaled even the jockiest jocks of Hope's Peak. Leon played on the girl’s baseball team. He was the best player, actually; something of a prodigy. That became a bragging point for Hope’s Peak, the academy enjoyed some national press for a fast ball Leon pitched. It was clocked at 104.4 miles per hour and earned him athletic scholarships to some of the cushiest universities in Japan. He was set for a successful future as long as he kept swinging a bat. 

He slipped his hand into Leon’s back pocket. 

"Wanna get outta here?"

He could have been a star.

Mondo was all over him. Leon, he was fumbling with his key and missing the lock, scraping around the knob, blindly, as Mondo kissed him. They could have fucked right there, against the door with the cold autumn chill. They did it on the couch, instead. Leon crawled on top and Mondo couldn't argue, he had a few drinks in him and lifted his knees, submissively. It felt nice, sometimes, to be dominated like that. Leon was good at it, too. His voice got low and his fingers grazed that spot again and again until it was nearly unbearable. Mondo choked on his packer, afterwards. Leon just sort of shoved it in his face and it was hot, it was soft in his mouth, but Mondo was into it. He drooled around the silicon, gagged on it as Leon gave him these half lidded eyes. 

Leon kissed him in the morning and that in itself was refreshing. Typically, after a hookup like that, it was all silence and awkward pauses, but Leon was sweet. He cooked breakfast and brewed coffee and kissed Mondo again, despite being completely sober. Mondo had the impression that maybe he had been alone for awhile. Leon shoveled fried eggs onto a plate and said relationships were difficult. He handed it to Mondo and said, _"Not to be weird, but I really like you."_

Mondo shrugged. He said he killed people for a living. Not to be weird, though. No. 

Picture this. Leon leaping onto the couch with his guitar raised over his head in that scholarship worthy batting pose, prepared to crack Mondo's head like a hard ball. It was more hilarious than intimidating. If he had posed any real danger, Mondo would have wrestled it from his grasp. Leon had kept a stoic face, but he was shaking like a leaf. It was cute. 

Mondo was just putting all his cards on the table. Honesty is required in any relationship, right? Transparency? Mondo sat down with breakfast and got real honest and transparent. He said he only killed _bad_ people, you know, like perverted old men and adulterous husbands. He had never killed a completely innocent person and that was the truth. Never a woman and never a child. Really, he was doing society a favor, assassinating all those scumbags. With the pull of a trigger, he could play God for a moment, he could do it guilt free. The money was good, too.

See, Leon was living in this tiny apartment and working this shit pay job and it pissed Mondo off. Leon was too talented and too pretty and Mondo wanted to take care of him. Indulge him. He had wanted to take care of Kiyotaka, too, but Kiyotaka was so goddamn independent, he worked hard and rarely needed a lean. If Kiyotaka wanted to sit home and paint ducks all day, hell, Mondo would have been the provider for the both of them. They could have had a beautiful life, together in the house Mondo built, eating the fruit Kiyotaka grew, surrounded by a hundred wooden ducks. 

Mondo talked Leon down. He promised him everything. 

“Just tell me what you need.”

Leon is a little fucked up. Mondo pays for his guitars and microphones and everything else an at-home studio may require. He pays for his rent and equipment and that’s compliance, right? He is financed by blood money. Leon may be sweet, but he isn’t a saint. He’s an artist with his own self interest at heart. That’s just the name of the game. That’s survival. There are a million small time musicians trying to make it big and the sad truth is that most never will. Leon is recording this pop-punk album, agonizing over every dull lyric and overused chord progression, lamenting his old baseball scholarships. Mondo reminds him not to worry, he never has to worry about money ever again. Mondo is practically his sugar daddy and all Leon has to do is exist. So, there it is, the dynamic of their relationship. Leon is fucked up, but not as much as Mondo, and not as much as Kiyotaka. 

Yes, Kiyotaka is fucked up. _Was._ Now stop feeling sorry for him.

**LEON**

_Sayaka is here...She says pick up your damn phone :/_

Mondo pockets his cell. Asuka is curled up on the couch and it might be fine to leave her, but it might be irresponsible, too. He doesn’t know the first thing about childcare, but supervision is key, right? Or common sense. No leaving her alone again, even if she is asleep. He lifts her off the cushion and she clings to him so naturally, her little face squished against his shoulder. He grabs a blanket, his keyring, then starts down the road. Leon’s apartment isn’t far, about twelve minutes by foot. Asuka bobs with each step, as limp as a doll. 

It’s only 5PM and it’s already dark. Well, as dark as Tokyo can get. The city is a nightmare, a never-ending swarm of lights and sounds and people. Even on the outskirts, that incessant buzz still remains. It’s inescapable, remember? Losing his mind naturally was easy enough and the city makes it so much easier.

Mondo unlocks the front door. The light is on, but the living room is empty. He sets Asuka down on the sectional, then covers her with the blanket. On the ottoman is a bottle of vodka and a pink leather handbag with a rose gold chain. He grabs the bottle and finishes it off with a swig. There is noise coming from the bedroom, this distant creak, and it is accompanied by a moan. 

_"Leon!"_

That’s Sayaka. 

They were probably recording, got tipsy, then decided to fuck. The album that Leon is working on, it’s a collaboration with Sayaka Maizono, one of the biggest names in the pop idol world. The industry owns her, of course. She signed a 10 year contract, forbidding her from singing without agency approval. Leon is a nobody making music in the spare bedroom of his apartment, so obviously the whole album is a secret. It’s a ballsy move, a FUCK YOU in pursuance of creative liberation. Sayaka, for the first time in many years, she gets to write and sing about whatever the fuck she wants. With a hot, talented guitarist, no less.

Mondo bursts open the bedroom door. 

"Holy shit!" Leon gasps. Sayaka shrieks and shields her tits. 

"Chill," Mondo laughs. 

Sayaka is on top of Leon, seated in his lap, looking goddamn camera ready. That must be a symptom of celebrity. Her makeup is not smudged in the slightest, not her winged eyeliner or her liquid lip gloss. Leon is quite the opposite, his hair looks especially feral, like Sayaka has been raking her nails through it, which are gorgeous, by the way. Each one a matching length, polished to match her lips.

"You could fuckin' knock, y'know?!" Leon howls, chucking a pillow in his direction. Mondo throws it back and Leon eats it. 

"Where's the fun in that?" He hops onto the bed. "Hey, baby."

"Hi, Mondo," Sayaka smiles.

He tackles Sayaka and she squeals. Her hair smells like lavender, he gets a whiff of it as he presses a dramatic, wet kiss to the side of her face. She laughs, so he does it again, twice as obnoxious.

"Wow, I'm right here!" Complains the redhead. Mondo leans forward, sandwiching Sayaka to kiss him. "No! _Asshole!_ You're gonna fuckin' crush me to death!"

He eases up. He notices Leon is wearing a harness and he is still deep inside Sayaka. Mondo squeezes her ass, lifts her up, then pushes down. She takes the hint.

"How long you in town?" Mondo murmurs against her neck.

"Just tonight.”

She rides Leon slow, raising her hips to reveal an inch or so of the prosthesis, before it disappears inside of her again. Leon relaxes, eyes dropping as he watches. Mondo spits into his hand and wriggles a finger into her ass. She inhales sharply through her nose, exhales a cry, then grinds down. Fuck, that's hot. He gets sort of impatient, wraps his arms around her and drags her off Leon.

“C’mere.”

"Yo!" Leon barks, before defeatedly loosening his harness and flinging it across the bed. "You're such a fuckin' cuck."

"Keep it down, yeah? There's a kid sleepin' on your couch. I'm babysittin' her."

"What?” Leon squints at him. “You don't know anyone with kids."

"Aww,” Sayaka coos. She lays herself out, the pillows to her back like a throne. “How old?”

"Three."

"I want a baby,” she sighs, wistfully. She loosens the drawstring of Mondo’s pants. “You know, after my contract is over. Just a few more years.”

His sweats come off easy and then he’s naked enough to fuck her. She gives his cock a firm grip and a short stroke. 

"Gimme a call in a few years, then. I'll make a baby with you," he winks, before smothering her with a kiss. There is a string of condoms on the nightstand. He tears open the foil, then rolls on the rubber. 

"You do not," Leon slides off the bed, "want a kid with Mondo. He's not exactly dad material."

Sayaka muses, "I think I want to be a single mom.”

"That's crazy. I've never heard anyone say that,” Leon snorts. 

"Then it's perfect,” Mondo grins at Sayaka. “I'll knock ya up and you can keep it for yourself. How's that?"

As if she wasn’t perfect enough, Sayaka has the wettest goddamn pussy. He rubs the head of his cock against her and wishes the condom wasn’t separating them. It’s funny, because that’s his main anxiety when it comes to sleeping with women, the fear of pregnancy. He likes when he can go raw a man in the ass, then finish inside without any real consequence. Something about putting a baby in Sayaka is hot, though, even if it is a joke. 

"You want Daddy to fuck your pussy?" 

Yeah, maybe he’s got a breeding kink. 

"Oh, yes, Daddy!" Sayaka plays along, then reaches to cover her mouth, remembering to stay quiet. 

"Oh, my God!" Leon throws his head back in annoyance. “Bye.”

“Hey," Mondo reaches over, then reels him in for a kiss. "Don't be jealous."

Leon grumbles. "I'm not."

Mondo was hoping for a threesome, but Leon swings open the door and heads for the bathroom. Sayaka eagerly rolls her hips so Mondo obliges her, presses inside, and fuuuu _uuuck_. He spreads her open and shoots a wad of spit on her clit. She mewls like a goddamn porn star. 

Performative sex. He can't blame Sayaka for it, she is a performer after all. She tucks her hair behind her ear and her jewelry, this star shaped hoop, catches the light quite thematically. He gets his fist around her throat and squeezes the sides of her neck, not her trachea, because he’s a gentleman, alright? Her mouth falls open with a silent cry. The mask begins to shed, her face reddens and her movements become fast and rigid. With one hand, she is clawing his skin, with the other, rubbing her clit raw. She tightens up, her eyes spiral with emotion, and there it is. Her real face. He rewards her with a fresh gulp of air.

She orgasms. He nuts. Everyone finishes, alright? Except Leon, who is in the shower. Mondo tosses the condom and helps Sayaka off the bed. Her knees knock together and isn’t that the most flattering gesture? He slaps her ass on the way to the bathroom. 

Leon has one of those showers with the frosted glass. When Mondo slides it open, Kiyotaka is standing there, beneath the steady stream of water. The steam coils off his skin and evaporates as it hits the ceiling. He lifts an eyebrow, dark and thick and raised. Mondo steps inside and reaches for him, a hand on either side of his face, then crushes their mouths together. He rolls his tongue and slowly pulls away, only to discover those red eyes are now blue, and Leon, he is the one staring back.

"You okay?" Leon asks, a bit breathless from the kiss. 

About this time last night, he had a knife inside Kiyotaka. 

Sayaka hops in and her blue hair darkens beneath the spray. There is music playing, Mondo felt deaf just a moment ago, but he hears everything now, Sayaka clicking open a bottle of body lotion, the music bouncing off the walls. He recognizes this playlist. He put it together for Leon when they were still getting acquainted, you know, around the same time they decided to be maybe-boyfriends and rivaled the pace of two lesbians. _ABBA_ fades (shut up, they’re iconic) and the tracklist continues. 

“Oh, Madonna!” Sayaka gasps. “ _Life is a my-ster-y! Everyone must stand a-lone! I hear you call my name—_ Leon, sing with me!" 

Sayaka blow-dries her hair while Leon calls a cab. Mondo pulls on a band tee and it screams high school, this old thing with bleach stains. When he steps into the living room, Leon is there, eyeing their unconscious guest. The kid sleeps like a rock. 

“Can I see her?” Sayaka asks as she emerges from the bathroom. 

Asuka has her little face pressed against the cushion. She looks a bit flush. Sayaka _awww_ ’s. 

“Can I steal her?”

Mondo just has to laugh.

Sayaka blows a goodbye kiss to Leon, then Asuka. Mondo accompanies her to the ground floor and they wait by the curbside. Sayaka pulls out her phone and swipes away a million notifications. With the level of fame she has, it might be better to mute them. Praise is addictive, though. He watches her pause on a few and smile. That’s how Leon and Sayaka got acquainted, by the way — Leon just slid into her DMs. How did Sayaka notice him among all the fangirls and fuckboys? Mondo hasn’t a clue. The cab rolls up and Mondo squeezes her shoulder. 

“Oh, I almost forgot!” She snaps open her handbag. “For you and Leon.”

Two V.I.P tickets to her show next weekend. He sets a reminder in his phone and she hugs him farewell. 

When he steps back inside, Leon is seated, absently plucking a guitar in his lap. He nods toward Asuka.

"Whose kid is this?" 

Mondo rummages for a cigarette. 

"Some poor bastard I whacked."

"You can't be serious," Leon chuckles and starts playing a tune. He watches Mondo’s face and waits for the punchline, but it never comes. He stops strumming. "Mondo.”

“Yeah?”

“This is kidnapping."

"Baby," he flicks his lighter, nonchalantly, "I already kill people for a living." 

"What the fuck were you thinking?" Leon stands. "You're fuckin' losing it. I knew it! You're losing your mind." Then, he laments, mostly to himself, "Fuck! I knew this would happen."

"Yo, you'll wake the kid."

Leon gets in his face — which would be intimidating if Mondo didn't tower him — and speaks in a harsh whisper.

"Tell me who the fuck she belongs to!"

"Ishimaru," he blows the name out in smoke. 

"Ishimaru?" Leon chokes. " _That_ Ishimaru?"

Leon mostly knows Kiyotaka as a passing face. He was too busy double knotting his cleats to get chummy with an honor student like Kiyotaka. The same way Mondo was too busy cutting class to get chummy with an athlete like Leon. 

Leon also knows Kiyotaka as THE EX _,_ but Mondo never clarified what Kiyotaka was the ex _of_. 

"This is so fucked.” Leon starts pacing. "Jesus, Mondo! You need to drop her off somewhere!"

"Then who's gonna take care of her?"

"Not your problem! It's never been your goddamn problem! Why make it your problem now?" 

See, here it is, Leon and his self interest. Yeah, Mondo did the kidnapping, but just like any crime it smears like shit and that makes Leon culpable. He can rationalize Mondo shooting some white collar worker in a beach house, because he never has to witness it. The compliance of chewing meat, knowing the animal suffered, but never seeing the torture. Bad things aren’t real until you see them. There is no little orphan girl until she is napping in the living room. 

"I killed her dad,” Mondo sort of shrugs, because that isn’t the real reason. 

"Becoming her caretaker doesn't fix that!" 

A sound, a soft rustle of fabric, shuts Leon up in an instant. Asuka rubs her eyes and does a slow scan of the room, disoriented by her surroundings. One glance at Leon and her demeanor changes, she clutches her blanket and looks at Mondo with these doe eyes, seeking reassurance. 

"I'm hungry," she frowns.

"Hey, babygirl," Mondo grunts as he scoops her up.

"No, don't do that— Oh, my God! Now she's seen my face, great. Great! Now we're both going to prison. Now I'll never finish my goddamn album!" He chucks his guitar pick and mournfully collapses onto the couch. "Oh, it's shit, anyway."

"Your music is good, babe," Mondo says, unconcerned. "Play something."

Leon, face buried in his hands, muffles, "I'm not in the mood."

"My Daddy," Asuka chimes, "My Daddy plays the piano."

"Oh, my god," Leon whimpers. "This is messed up."

"Yeah?" Mondo bounces her on his hip and she smiles. "What songs does he play?"

 _"No._ No, no, no! _”_ Leon objects, with just an edge of humor in his voice. If he doesn't laugh, he'll cry. “I'm kicking you out! She can’t be here.”

“I gotta get her somethin’ new to wear,” Mondo changes the subject. “You wanna go out with me tomorrow?”

Leon exhales this sort of laugh-cry. He sounds neurotic. 

“You mean you’re gonna take her outside, where other people are, where other people can _see you?_ ” Leon asks nice and slow, making sure he gets it right. Mondo, he wants Mondo to understand how crazy he is. “She must be listed as a missing person, by now. She’s a kid, people go nuts when kids disappear! Everyone’s gonna be looking for her!”

“Asuka, tell Leon you want him to come with us.”

“Don’t tell her my name!”

Asuka giggles. 

“C’mon, baby," Mondo pecks Leon on the cheek in an effort to console him. It delights the hell out of Asuka, she giggles even more. "I’ll buy ya somethin’ nice.”

“Yeah, with your blood money,” Leon glares.

“It bought you all this.” He would gesture to the entire apartment if he could. He taps his cigarette and Asuka coughs. 

"Dude, I don't even like kids, but you're making me anxious," Leon exasperates. “Don’t smoke in front of her.”

_Don’t smoke in front of my son._

Fuck him. Fuck that bastard. Mondo will explain it later. 

He smothers the cigarette. Asuka wriggles in his arms and reminds him she’s hungry. When he sets her down, she immediately goes for the guitar and pokes at it excitedly. Mondo peeks in the cabinets for a snack, then searches the refrigerator. He sees this flash of orange and suddenly it is the only thing that exists. This bright orange sphere, he reaches for it, it fits so easily in the palm of his hand.

"Hey, don't drink the wine," Leon warns, amidst his meltdown on the couch. "Two fruit flies died in there."

Mondo steps back into the living room. 

"What the fuck is this?"

Leon blinks. 

“Um. That is a fruit."

It's a mandarin orange. The kind Kiyotaka loves. The kind Mondo noticed, piled on Kiyotaka’s dining table, as though they were the centerpiece. It is smooth in his hand and it feels like a joke.

"Are you fucking with me right now?"

"What?" Leon couldn’t be more lost. 

"You don't like these,” Mondo growls. “When the fuck have you liked these?"

Asuka pads over to him with her little hands outstretched. She gets on her tiptoes and he loosens his grip, so she can take the orange. Leon is still staring at him, waiting for some kind of explanation.

"I can't do it," Asuka fusses, then tries handing it back. 

Mondo lacks the dexterity. His fingers are too large. His nails are too blunt. He can visualize it, this image of Kiyotaka and his slender hands, gracefully peeling the fruit apart. So meticulous and so goddamn gentle. His hands, how they used to feel, smoothing along his skin and dipping into his mouth, pulling Mondo apart with the simplest touch. 

“I can’t do it,” Asuka keeps whining. 

Neither can he. 


	3. This is for grown-ups

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short-ish chapter? I'm experimenting with pacing. Thank you for the reviews on chapter two! The encouragement is very much appreciated. Like seriously, thank you so much. 
> 
> My very dear friend (you know who you are) called my version of Mondo "yandere" and I was like "yeah? ...kinda!" and idk. I just thought that was funny.
> 
> And oh, I made a tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/bastardbones

* * *

Kiyotaka was beautiful.

Yeah, he had pretty eyes—blah, blah—and Mondo could keep pointing them out, he could wax poetry, _those amber irises, glistening like a dollop of honey_ , but he fucking won't. It gets old. Frankly, Kiyotaka had a killer ass. A firm shape that quivered with the lightest smack—Mondo could go into details. After all, that ass was his. He used to bury his face and his tongue so deep inside that Kiyotaka could hardly speak. He would whimper, mostly. Writhing on the bed sheets, white knuckled and dumb. He would usually lift his hips, raise them higher and higher the closer he got to an orgasm, like he was trying to meet God. 

Go back six years ago, back when they found an injured crane during a midnight walk. It was flailing helplessly, wing torn and feathers matted, just along the pond in Yoyogi Park. It was in bad shape and Kiyotaka insisted they save it. He tapped away at his cellphone in search of an animal rehabilitation center that _wasn’t_ closed. Mondo wouldn’t have called anyone. Mondo would have kept walking. Something had obviously attacked it; something hungry and desperate. Something starving enough to attack a bird that massive. 

Go back six years ago, back when Kiyotaka was browsing through some articles about sperm count and male fertility. Bananas, in case anyone wanted to know, the most phallic goddamn fruit, is known to improve sperm health. Oranges, too. 

Go back six years ago, back when they were sitting at the dining table and Kiyotaka was clutching Mondo’s hand beneath it. No plates, no meal, not a goddamn morsel of food. They weren’t seated for a pleasant gathering. Instead, they were having a discussion. Mondo, he chose his words carefully. Takaaki Ishimaru, he was still wearing his blue, still strapped with his gun and his baton and Kiyotaka was saying, _"Dad, please, won’t you just trust me?"_

Takaaki had a hoarse voice. He had probably destroyed it during the divorce or as his son left the closet, two unhappy events that came to a collision. Takaaki was a traditional man. When he had his son, his only son, he simply had the expectations that many parents do. Mondo wouldn’t go so far as to label him a homophobe. He was more like a reluctant ally. His wife had machine gunned his heart, so his son— _his gay son_ —was all he had once the smoke cleared. Takaaki, once the emotionally distant father, became an overly protective—borderline possessive—parent overnight. Everything had changed, because now he knew. He knew his son was attracted to men—and God, if men weren’t the most dangerous creatures. He wouldn’t allow Kiyotaka to bring home a monster, but somehow, Mondo had made it through the door. 

In his hoarse voice, Takaaki had said, “It’s not you I don’t trust.”

Go back six years ago, back to a separate meeting, _with_ dinner, that ended with Mondo waiting outside the house, flicking his lighter until his thumb was agitated red. Mondo, with his cigarette, hoping to pass the time and maybe calm his nerves. Kiyotaka, spilling through the door to hug him, then vanishing faster than a bolt of lightning. He stormed off without offering his father the faintest goodbye and before Mondo could follow, Takaaki grabbed him.

“Don’t smoke in front of my son,” he snarled beneath his breath. His grip was like steel. “Don’t ever let me catch you, boy.”

 _Fuck him._ Fuck Takaaki Ishimaru. 

See, the problem was this: Kiyotaka was beautiful—his eyes, his ass, whatever. He was beautiful, well mannered and destined for success, and Mondo, he threatened that.

Six years ago, he didn’t know how to load or aim a gun. Six years ago, he was guilty for lesser sins. Bar fights mostly and mouthing off to cops. Go back even further, to his teenagehood, back to his years of petty crime; graffiti, shoplifting. He was a kid that always found trouble. A simple nuisance to society. Takaaki gave him too much credit. 

Mondo was changing that, though. He was changing for the better; for Kiyotaka, of course. He bit his tongue more times than he could count. Swallowed his words; the anger; the impulses. He could be civil. He could play it cool around Takaaki, even when his temper began to boil over. He could behave, even when the bastard threw him a dirty look. He could cooperate, even knowing, and God did he know, of the bullshit that bastard cop put his beautiful son through. 

Mondo, if he ever had an enemy in the world, then it was this man. 

***

Asuka wets the bed. 

Mondo is on the couch again and she nudges him awake. Her face is red and her pink nightgown is now several shades darker. With a sigh, he scoops her up. He’s not angry, because whatever, she’s three and it was bound to happen, right? Asuka is visibly distressed; squirming in her own skin, face snotty and twisted. He runs a bath for her and adds a pinch of liquid soap. Bubbles form as the water falls with a thunderous echo, disturbing the 4AM monotony. Mondo gets her undressed, flings her soiled clothes into the corner, then dips her in the tub. The body wash he squeezes into her hands, but she gives him a miserable look before flicking it into the water. 

“No,” he scolds, voice gruff from sleep. “C’mon, hold your hand out.”

He supervises from the door, peering up every minute or so. A quick search on his phone reveals that white vinegar and baking soda are magic, stain removing ingredients. Neither of which he has. He could probably run over to Leon’s place and find something useful. Poor Leon, right? Mondo shouldn’t have yelled at him like that. He dismisses the search tab and types, _“hey babe. i’m sorry about last night. text me when you wake up?”_ Then hits send. 

Asuka starts splashing around the tub. She beats her hands on the surface of the water, almost like beating a drum. Mondo watches as she takes a frothy handful and blows into the bubbles. He steps back into the bathroom to crouch beside her. He wets his fingers with a shallow dip, then hits her with a playful flick of water.

“No!” Asuka shrieks with a smile. She tries flicking him back.

He cracks a smile. “Stay put, alright?” 

Her clothes are still filthy. He dumps them into the washing machine then snags one of Leon's shirts from the dryer. The smallest he can find and it fits her like a dress. 

“This is for grown-ups,” Asuka giggles. 

She is sitting on the coach now and he is towel drying her hair. He rubs her scalp in circles. 

“I know.”

“It smells funny!”

It should be clean. He takes a whiff and it smells vaguely of marijuana. Mondo tosses the towel and defeatedly drags his hands down his face. 

“I’m gonna get you some clothes, alright?” Mondo sighs. “I promise.”

He stays like that for a moment, his expression hidden from Asuka. She pokes his head. 

“Are you crying?”

“I don’t cry,” Mondo grumbles between his fingers. 

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I said so, Asuka,” he says with finality and lifts his face. 

“My Daddy says if you cry you feel better.”

Kiyotaka cried a lot. Atleast, more than a man averagely does. Kiyotaka cried more in a week than Mondo did in a year. Kiyotaka thought crying was healthy, that it had little do with masculinity and a lot to do with being human. Maybe that was just a difference in upbringing. Despite having a tight-ass father, Kiyotaka was allowed to express his emotions. What a privilege! Now clap everyone. 

Mondo steps into his boots and tucks the laces. As much as he wants to curl back to sleep, the mattress isn’t going to clean itself. 

“Are you leaving?” Asuka asks. She sounds anxious. 

“Yer comin’ with me,” Mondo scoops her up and she hugs his neck. “We’re just goin’ next door. I need to grab a few things, alright?” 

He drapes her in a blanket. Not only is she underdressed, but it gets cold this time of morning. When he opens the front door, a gust of wind slaps his face. Fall is so cold in the city. When the wind moves through the skyscrapers, it builds and funnels then strikes like a whip. It was never like that in the country. The country was quiet and the weather made a lot more sense. Oh, and the air didn’t smell like shit every time it rained. Tokyo is convenient and nothing else. The nearest convenience store is ridiculously convenient; just a short walk around the corner and open 24/7. He pushes through the door and a bell chimes upon his entry. 

The worker is a young man suffering through the last of the graveyard shift. He offers less than a glance. Mondo finds baking soda and passes it to Asuka. She tries shaking it, but the contents are too dense. Her eyebrows pull together as she observes the box. Maybe she’s trying to read it—can three year olds read? He finds a tall, thin bottle of vinegar and Asuka grabs for it. She holds the items securely to her chest, finding this job to be of incredible importance. He sees her eyeing up a bag of candy. 

"You want that?" Mondo asks. 

"Mhm," she nods quickly. Her hands are getting awfully full. 

They return to the front of the store. The worker nods in place of a hello and begins ringing up the items. Behind the register, high in the corner, is a box television. The volume is low; the closed captions are enabled, but they lag behind the audio. Mondo gives it a thoughtless glimpse, then does the fastest double-take in his life. 

On the screen, is a female new anchor wearing a tan suit jacket—not hideous, but _girl_ that is _not_ your color—and behind her is a nightmare. Her word: _nightmare._ At least, that must be what she says, according to the captions. 

"Just two nights ago, a nightmare unfolded in this quiet Tokyo suburb. Twenty-seven year old Kiyotaka Ishimaru of the National Diet, slain in cold blood. His three year old daughter? Nowhere to be found. Now, Police Chief Inspector Takaaki Ishimaru is vowing to the find the person or persons responsible for the murder of his son and disappearance of his granddaughter."

Mondo is only halfway through the captions before the footage flicks from Kiyotaka’s home to Kiyotaka’s father. His mouth is moving, but his words are a mystery, at least, they will be for the next five to ten seconds or however long it takes for these goddamn letters to catch up. The footage looks prerecorded. It looks like a press conference or something. Or whatever it is that people do when a politician is murdered and his father is the goddamn police chief, and oh, a girl is missing, too. Yeah, whatever _that_ is. 

Takaaki looks like shit. Takaaki has always looked like shit, except now, he finally has a reason to. His skin is grey, his eyes are sunken, and he has just the meanest 5 o’clock shadow. Mondo imagines how awful it would feel, that stubble scraping against his skin. Not that he wants to touch Takaaki—gross—but he looks a lot like Kiyotaka, right? If Kiyotaka had lived? If Kiyotaka ever got old enough to look THAT goddamn shitty. Takaaki acknowledges the camera and Mondo nearly forgets to breathe. 

He can only read keywords, now. Words like TRAGEDY. Words like CRIME. Words like JUSTICE. 

_Why? Why is Mondo even here, again?_

Asuka pissed the bed.

_He should be the one pissing the bed._

Asuka excitedly points to the television and gasps, “Grandpa!”

The cash register slings open and Mondo almost jumps out of his skin. The worker hardly notices a thing; not the uneasy man or the abducted child in his arms. 

"Keep the change,” Mondo says before grabbing his things. 


End file.
